


The Lion and the Glasses

by hahnenfeder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Art, Canonical Character Death, Illustrations, M/M, UST, Unrequited Love, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2020-11-08 10:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20834279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hahnenfeder/pseuds/hahnenfeder
Summary: If you’re aiming at the moon, you’ll  hit a Hippogriff, but if you’re aiming at a Hippogriff, you’ll hit the ground.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Лев и очки](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/523847) by Диана Шипилова. 

> I drew an illustration (chapter 11) as a birthday gift for Diana who is the author of this brilliant fic.

The war was drawing to an end, and even first-year students realised that. It was retreating and getting even closer to the heart of the country where once it had been born. That May was warm, feisty and full of joy. No one wanted to study, and on top of that there were gaping holes in the timetable of the passing year. Albus Dumbledore, Transfiguration teacher, had left Hogwarts chasing the war. 

Rufus Scrimgeour was thinking about it all the way while he was talking to the first-year students, while he was listening to boring lectures, exploring labyrinthine halls of Hogwarts and before going to sleep. If there had been people who had been doubting the Head’s success, the Gryffindor lion cubs, not to mention Rufus himself, had not been among them. He imagined the war as an abominable monster who was surely to be defeated by Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore would return and get back to teaching Transfiguration. 

And then the long-awaited day had come.

Since morning Gryffindors had been busy with their usual stuff, looking for textbooks, copying friend’s essays, making themselves ready for the lessons. Just then Professor Flitwick, who had been replacing Dumbledore in his absence, was let in through the portrait of the Fat Lady and entered the Gryffindor common room. 

‘Albus Dumbledore’s back!’ squeaked the little Professor gleefully. ‘Forces of evil have been defeated! No lessons today!’ 

His voice drowned in the ecstatic roar of all the Gryffindors. Rufus suspected that the last news had accounted for more delight.

‘Let’s go to the Great Hall!’ In vain Flitwick was trying to speak over their roar. ‘We should meet our hero properly.’

Elbowing other students out of the way, Rufus got through to the doorway and was one of the first to spring into the hall.

… Never had he seen the Great Hall so magnificently decorated. Headmaster Dippet believed that war was not for excesses, but now red and golden ribbons were stretched across the hall, banners were hanging proudly on the walls, and Peeves had been bundled off. Rufus and his classmates couldn’t stop turning their heads left and right. Where _is_ Dumbledore? Who are those wizards at the High Table?

Excited students took their seats any old how. Rufus craned his neck lest he missed anything. And there he was at last, the Head of the Gryffindor House, by the far end of the table. His tall figure was a bit blurry for short-sighted Rufus, who saw only the pale silhouette of his face surrounded by an auburn halo of his hair.

‘Dear students, teachers and our guests!’ The Headmaster raised from his seat. ‘Today is a truly special day. The war that has haunted both Muggles and wizards is over. Gellert Grindelwald is defeated. And the person who takes most of credit is Albus Dumbledore who is sitting right here.’

Dumbledore said something, but Rufus to his great dismay wasn’t able to hear a thing. Meanwhile, Dippet stretched his hand toward Dumbledore and continued in a louder voice:

‘Professor Dumbledore came back very late yesterday and refused to go to the Ministry even to get his reward. Such modesty does honour to anyone, of course … But we have come up with a solution. The Minister for Magic and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot have agreed to arrive here to congratulate the victor and award him his much deserved Order of Merlin.’

A tall and lean wizard in dress robes stood up and addressed Dumbledore:

‘We do understand, Albus, what you have been through and that you have just returned from a terrible, terrible place. So we do not insist on the oficial ceremony, but here, in this hall full of your friends and students, your reward shall find its true hero. Let us express our admiration on behalf of the whole Wizarding Britain. We beg you to accept the Order.’ 

‘Thank you, Minister,’ said Dumbledore. Rufus noticed that his voice sounded hollow, as that of an old bell. ‘Armando, I asked you not to —’

But Dippet waved his protests away, and Dumbledore accepted a box that was handed to him by the Minister. A long round of applause followed. 

‘I think he’s a true hero indeed,’ whispered Rufus to a person next to him. 

‘Definitely,’ he agreed. ‘One wonders why it is that he teaches Transfiguration and not Defence Against the Dark Arts.’

Just then, in one instant, dishes with food appeared, more abundant than during the war. Having forgotten about everything else, students set about having breakfast. While he was enjoying his meal, Rufus still kept thinking about the significance of the moment, of the greatness and all the good qualities of those who had been sorted into Godric Gryffindor’s House. 

‘I absolutely have to congratulate the Professor,’ he decided. Maybe Dumbledore will even tell them about his part in the war in more detail? 

After breakfast, squinting intensely, Rufus was looking for the Professor all over the hall. But Albus Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

Having studied here for nigh on five years, Rufus had surely visited the office of the Head of Gryffindor House more than once, but this time was special, because he was going to talk about his future profession.

The moment he had learnt that his individual consultation was to be on Monday, Rufus started thinking how to make his career plans sound more impressive for Dumbledore. Since his first year had Rufus Scrimgeour known that he would become an Auror, but he also knew that nearly every Gryffindor boy and every other Gryffindor girl always dreamt about becoming an Auror too. It was exasperating since it rendered his dream ordinary. What would Dumbledore say to yet another aspiring Auror, and in time of peace at that? No, of course, nothing sceptical … but Scrimgeour couldn’t allow Dumbledore to see him as a mediocrity. Yes, he ought to prepare for this meeting properly. 

When time came, he left History of Magic class without even bothering to ask Binns for permission. He quickly reached Dumbledore’s office and knocked.

‘Come in!’ He heard a welcoming voice and opened the door. ‘Oh, it’s you, Rufus. Good.’

Dumbledore was sitting at the table and wearing his favourite blue silk robe. Once again Scrimgeour felt how impersonal his school uniform was. He entered the office, crossed it and sat opposite Dumbledore without waiting for an invitation.

Dumbledore smiled, and it could well be a response to such a cheek. 

‘You do know that today we are going to talk about your career plans,’ he said, taking out their class register. ‘What would you like to be in future?’

‘Head of the Auror Office,’ said Rufus calmly. 

Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. Perfect!

‘Is that so? And just being an Auror is not good enough for you?ʼ

‘It _is_ necessary at the beginning,’ Rufus agreed. ‘But you know, it was Egbert the Egregious who once said: ‘If you’re aiming at the moon, you’ll hit a Hippogriff, but if you’re aiming at a Hippogriff, you’ll hit the ground.’ So I’m getting ready right from the start to be of maximum use in fighting evil.’

‘Rufus,’ smiled Dumbledore, ‘if your aim is to fight evil, you can do it at any place — no matter how small or unimportant it is. But I can understand your determination, though I never could fathom why Egbert was so keen on killing Hippogriffs. You’ll make a good leader, I’m sure of it. But you have to remember that strength and power themselves won’t defeat evil, though they can help you with that.’ 

‘And what is it that defeats evil then?’ asked Rufus, baffled. 

Well, yes, Dumbledore had a point when he was talking about positions and places. Dumbledore himself defeated Grindelwald being a mere Professor at Hogwarts. But this was Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. He had more power than anyone whom Rufus had ever known. Just one look from him was an inspiration for the students to perform acts of bravery, such as memorising the most difficult Transfiguration formulas. And the opposite held true, too. Just one look from him was able to awaken the student to a sense of shame more efficiently than a bunch of preaching family members. Dumbledore wasn’t young, but there was so much joie de vivre in him, so much fire in his eyes! Many Rufus’s peers paled in comparison.

But one couldn’t share these thoughts with Dumbledore, evidently.

‘If you only use power, evil would become like the Lernaean Hydra,’ said Dumbledore seriously. ‘You cut his head, but then you get two more in its place. Rufus … you have it in you, something that can help you defeat evil. It is essential to keep it. You’ll understand.ʼ

Rufus felt his heart pounding fiercely. He stared at Dumbledore fixedly until he couldn’t properly see his face. 

_He has it in him, everything that he needs to defeat evil!_ Or course, Dumbledore was talking about his bravery, loyalty and audacity. He, too, was a Gryffindor. Surely, you could be the most powerful wizard in the world, and yet, at war, you would be of no use without bravery. 

He will keep it, oh yes! He will become an Auror, and then he’ll visit Dumbledore and they’ll talk as equals … as nearly equals. Then he’ll tell him why he had decided to be an Auror and that he had always …

Dumbledore shook his head and said: ‘Well, let’s talk about the subjects you should keep studying next year.’


	3. Chapter 3

Alastor Moody, a tall wizard in his forties, had a rugged face and small beady eyes. He trained those who wanted to become Aurors.

‘Scrimgeour,’ said he brusquely on the very first day of training, ‘why are you squinting?’

Rufus didn’t want to admit that he had poor eyesight and he was sure that no-one would notice it.

‘It’s nothing, Mr Moody, I —’

‘Stand down!’ interrupted the Auror, ‘What’s on that poster? Answer!’

Rufus kept a gloomy silence.

‘Why aren’t you wearing glasses?’ asked Moody putting his hands into his pockets. ‘You think that an Auror with glasses is ridiculous? Rubbish! But an Auror with poor eyesight _is_ ridiculous. Physical disabilities could hamper our work, but only if you think about them all the time.’

Well, that was a fair point. After all, Albus Dumbledore wore glasses too. 

It was then that Rufus bought a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles in Diagon Alley. The world moved back and became deeper and clearer. And magic helped him keep his glasses in place during the most intense training sessions. 

‘Imagine,’ said Moody one day, interrupting his own explanations, ‘that there is a war going on. A young good-for-nothing sloven is trying to impress some girls and boasting he knows the Dark wizards you’re hunting. The word about it reaches you. Your investigation isn’t getting you anywhere. What would you do?’

There was a short uneasy silence in the room.

‘Let him go?’ Rufus’s former schoolmate Emma Jones suggested in an uncertain voice.

Moody waved his hand abruptly and curled his lips.

‘You let him go alright, but as it turns out he _has_ been recruited by the Dark wizards. He goes to them and tells everything he had time to sniff out.’

‘Then put him in Azkaban until further clarification.’ Rufus tucked his reddish strand behind his ear. ‘It’ll lessen the risk and let you keep the situation under control.’

‘What if he’s innocent though?’ asked Moody sharply leaning over to them. ‘You’ve visited Azkaban, you’ve spent an hour there. Can you imagine an innocent person who spends weeks in such a place?’

Emma shuddered. Rufus looked at her understandingly. His own memories of Azkaban weren’t pleasant at all. 

‘What’s the correct answer then?’ asked someone from behind in a deep voice. 

‘There is no correct answer’, said Moody. ‘You’re not in Hogwarts anymore.’

‘But what shall we do?’

Moody paced along the wall of the class, his hands crossed on his chest. 

‘In every uncertain situation you have to look for a new answer,’ grunted Moody, ‘and be very careful, ‘cause otherwise there will be nothing to look for. Now, let’s move to interrogation. You’ll be interrogating, miss Jones.’


	4. Chapter 4

Rufus Apparated to Hogsmead. He hadn’t been there for such a long time! Three years of training had passed, and now he was an Auror. It seemed to him he had graduated from school a century ago.

Scrimgeour often thought about this day, and now it came at last. 

He was in no hurry. The setting June sun was generously splashing its red and yellow rays which, in their turn, were reflected back by window panes, metal decorations on the roofs, and the glistening puddles left by the morning rain. Rufus went down the main street of the village, stopped by The Hog’s Head for ten minutes, gawked at shop windows of ‘Zonko’s’ —

_No, he’s just wasting his time now. He has to set off to Hogwarts._

The sodden path went up, meandering. Rufus was counting his steps as he had been doing when he was a child, but there were fewer steps now. 

The students at school were slaving away, getting ready for their exams. Rufus remembered how anxious he had been about his own O.W.Ls, let alone N.E.W.Ts! Back then he couldn’t have imagined the number of exams one has to take after the Auror training, both theory and practice. 

The gates were closed, of course. But Rufus had already decided how to get in. He concentrated on the thought about that day in May nine years ago and the sound of the squeaky voice ‘Albus Dumbledore’s back!’

‘Expecto Patronum,’ whispered Rufus waving his wand.

A wisp of silvery smoke thickened quickly and took the form of a lion with a luxuriant mane. The lion stepped onto the ground, touching it softly with its transparent paws. Rufus was particularly proud of his Patronus. How impressed Moody was when Rufus managed to summon his Patronus for the first time! What admiration was shining in Emma’s and other students’ eyes! A true lion, a symbol of Gryffindor bravery! 

Perhaps even if the gates hadn’t been closed by some chance, Rufus would have preferred not to notice it. 

The lion stretched slightly, extending its claws and in one leap skipped over the wall. It would tell Albus Dumbledore that Rufus Scrimgeour came to see him.

The minutes of waiting seemed impossibly long. 

_Maybe he’s busy with the exams? No, it can’t be, it’s evening already. And what if he’s not even in Hogwarts? Who knows what things a Deputy Headmaster has to deal with —_

His thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of the gates. Rufus entered, and the gates closed behind his back. 

The door of Dumbledore’s office was clearly etched on his memory, as if he had seen it the day before. He knocked and entered when he heard the answer.

‘Good evening, sir.’

‘It is lovely to see you in Hogwarts again, Rufus,’ Dumbledore smiled. Rufus noticed silver strands in his auburn hair. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

Pouring the tea, Dumbledore asked suddenly: ‘You’re wearing glasses now, aren’t you? You didn’t wear them at school.’

‘Yes,’ Rufus admitted, ‘it is important for an Auror to have a good sight.’

A pity Dumbledore didn’t say a word about the lion. Rufus wondered what form his Patronus took. 

‘Your dream is coming true’, said Dumbledore. ‘Are you happy?’

He moved a fine porcelain cup closer to Rufus and filled a small bowl with biscuits with a whish of his wand. The sun was almost down, and its rays were painting everything with red and golden of the Gryffindor house. Dumbledore’s robe was shimmering under this light with most unusual shades.

‘Of course I am happy,’ Rufus nodded, ‘and I’m not going to stop at that.’

Dumbledore took a sip of his tea and said: ‘What do you want to talk to me about then?’

Rufus closed his eyes for a second. His ears started ringing on a high note, but he shook his head and made the sound stop.

‘Five years ago,’ said Rufus, ‘I decided to come here and tell you that. It was you who inspired me to fight evil. I even remember the day when it happened. It’s not only the fact that you defeated Grindelwald, no. History has witnessed examples when the unworthy won, and no-one dared to judge them. But you — you’re the greatest wizard whom I’ve ever known. You are brilliant at everything you do. Nearly every Gryffindor student and many students from other houses, too, are keen on Transfiguration. Imagine if you start working at the Ministry and go into politics? Hard to believe no-one ever asked you to …’

‘They asked me,’ said Dumbledore quietly, and his bright-blue eyes dimmed for a moment. ‘Rufus, thank you for your flattering words, but I don’t deserve half of all those epithets. I am a great wizard, it’s true, but politics is not my thing. I’d better have a career at Hogwarts.’ 

Rufus felt the warmth of the tea fill his body; his ears started ringing again; the steam fogged his glasses. Rufus took them off and put them on the table. It was getting dark in the office, and quite rapidly.

‘It’s a pity you’re not my — you’re not our boss. Mr Moody —’

‘Alastor? Oh, don’t worry, he’s a good man and my old friend,’ Dumbledore said in a distant voice.

_Everything is wrong! Everything is so very wrong!_

He couldn’t quite find the right direction of their conversation, he was just walking in circles and wasting his time. And his ears were ringing, and his heart was pounding frantically.

‘I’d prefer you,’ said Scrimgeour hollowly. ‘Any day I’d prefer you. Whomever I had to choose, I’d prefer you. I —’

‘Rufus,’ Dumbledore intervened, ‘I know you’re a Gryffindor through and through. Even your Patronus proves it. And yet there are things that are better left unsaid. It is really better this way.’

The sound in his ears reached the squeak phase and disappeared. And reverberating silence fell on Rufus.


	5. Chapter 5

Having worked as an Auror for many years, Rufus Scrimgeour got a reputation as one of the bravest Aurors. Some even believed him to be reckless. The latter point of view was shared, of course, by Alastor Moody, though for him even the fact that no-one checked food in the canteen for poison was pure recklessness. 

However, everything was going rather smoothly and peacefully. New trainees were coming to the Department as usual, and for a long time the most serious event that had happened was a transformation of an Auror into a copper button. The criminal managed to get away at the time, and after a long search for their colleague the other Aurors finally got to notice that the button had his name etched on it. After that it was a piece of cake to transfigure the Auror back. 

But then the 70s came and with them a person who called himself Lord Voldemort. And that had changed everything. 

Scrimgeour had not even been aware that he had been waiting for something like that for nearly all his life, since Grindelwald was defeated. Finally his work had real risk in it! Real fight with the forces of evil! Now they were fighting the followers of the Dark wizard whom the whole wizarding world dreaded. This was a risk worth taking, this was something worth giving his life for! What other meaning to life was there? 

His youthful enthusiasm had long gone. He was in his thirties after all. But all his feelings from the past, though motionless, frozen, and abandoned, still lived in his soul.

He hadn’t seen Albus Dumbledore for nearly fifteen years. 

Dark Marks were appearing over the houses, wizards and Muggles were being tortured to death, mad fanatics were putting people on trial because of their blood status — and Scrimgeour with all his Department were fighting with that. They were organising raids, capturing and interrogating the criminals, but under no circumstances were they torturing or killing them. Moody claimed that they would be no better than the Death Eaters otherwise. Scrimgeour believed it to be an overstatement, but didn’t argue. They argued sometimes, of course, but only over caution and safety regulations.

When Scrimgeour got his first serious wound, he started to think that one might as well take heed of Moody’s words.

What grated on him is to get the injury from some little brat. It all happened in a flash. Scrimgeour had never before heard the spell shouted and he almost dodged it, but it hit his right leg, and at that very moment his leg exploded with pain. Rufus passed out and came round only at St Mungo’s.

His leg hurt as if every joint in his body was being twisted. When Rufus first tried to bend his knee, he let out a moan. Everything was blurry and not wearing glasses was only one reason. 

‘Ah, you’re awake,’ he heard a hoarse voice from the bed next to his. It was Alastor Moody. 

‘How did it end?’ asked Scrimgeour. 

‘None of our people got killed,’ Moody answered in the same hoarse voice, pulling up his blanket. ‘But that’s all the good news that there is.’

Scrimgeour swore. 

‘I should have been more careful. My leg hurts as if a Manticore chewed it. It was some Dark magic. That’s why we have to be tougher with them. They are simply not humans —’

‘Your leg will be okay.’ Moody interrupted him and, wincing, threw his blanket off himself. To his dismay, Scrimgeour saw bandages tightly wrapped around the stump.

‘That —’

‘That means we all have to be even more careful. Constant vigilance —’

Another wave of pain struck Scrimgeour, but this time he bit his lip and made no sound.


	6. Chapter 6

For more than a month the whole wizarding world had been discussing the most important event of the year — or, rather, of the decade. Not only had Voldemort been defeated, but a hero whom he had been unable to overcome turned out to be a one-year-old baby named Harry Potter. No-one knew how it could happen, but the fact remained that Harry Potter was the only person to survive the Killing Curse cast by the most powerful Dark wizard of the age. 

Nonetheless, people from the Auror Office still had their hands full.

Many Death Eaters were still on the loose. Most of them lied low trying to pretend they were law-abiding citizens, but some kept on acting as if their master still was with them. They carried on their attacks on those who had stood up to Voldemort in the past. 

Despite his light limp (which would more likely than not stay for the rest of his life, as the Healers at St Mungo’s said), Scrimgeour had taken part in many an operation against Voldemort or, after his defeat, against his followers. Why, even Moody having lost his leg, refused point-blank to switch from field to pure desk job. True, most pursuits and active fights were a young men’s game now, but everything could be of some use. 

Take Scrimgeour’s own walking stick. It annoyed him so much for it was too bulky and out of place. But it saved the life of a young trainee Kingsley Shacklebolt once, because it turned out that knocking out a Death Eater who was saying _‘Avada —’_ with a walking stick was faster than thinking of a suitable spell. 

Bartemius Crouch, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, issued an order allowing the Aurors to use the Unforgivable Curses on criminals. It often made their job easier, but Moody stood his ground and didn’t use this advantage to Scrimgeour’s utter bewilderment. How can they be no better than the Death Eaters if they use the Unforgivable Curses? Of course, you have to really want to kill a person for your Killing Curse to work properly, but anyone who saw what those bastards had done to the McKinnons, to the Prewett brothers, to the Potters would be eager to destroy them!

So, casting his doubts aside, Scrimgeour was doing everything he could possibly do. 

It was during the chase for Travers (who had killed the McKinnons) that Rufus experienced one the most terrifying moments in his life. The Aurors managed to shut down the area with an Anti-Disapparation Jinx, so Travers and two more Death Eaters had only their legs and the cover of that thick dark December night to help them escape. They darted into an unfinished Muggle building; Scrimgeour, Kingsley and Gawain Robards chased them. The Death Eaters were heading for the roof. And if there was one thing Scrimgeour was afraid of, it was heights. To fly on a broomstick was his worst nightmare. And now he was going up the stairs with no railing — one floor after another — gasping for air, with his heart pounding violently and his walking stick tapping the steps. Kingsley and Robards were far ahead of him, but he simply had to get there in time, he had to help them —

Suddenly in the last stairwell the old pain in his knee came back with a vengeance, Scrimgeour twisted his ankle and fell from the stairs. At the last moment he managed to hold onto a step. His walking stick and his wand disappeared in the darkness beneath him, though his glasses remained in place thanks to the spell. 

_Cry for help? Impossible. It’s two against three up there. He has to wait, it’s the only way. And no-one knows who is going to make it from the roof._ The only thought of the long way down in case he fell made his fingers weak. They were going to freeze soon and unclench themselves …

Scrimgeour gritted his teeth. Images from the past were flashing through his mind’s eye. That May in 1945, tests, exams, that very conversation — and some other images, from another life, in the life where he and Dumbledore —

Scrimgeour pulled himself up with a jerk trying to win back some more space that was slipping out of his fingers. 

‘If I make it out, I’ll write him a letter,’ he thought.

Finally, after what seemed like forever he heard footsteps from above. Scrimgeour cried for help hoping that they were the Aurors. And there they were indeed. 

Kingsley pronounced a spell with his deep low voice, and Scrimgeour felt the ropes winding around his body. 

_They have done this with criminals so many times!_

One pull, another — and Kingsley with Robards’s help dragged Scrimgeour out to safety. Right then he felt the sharp edges of the most wonderful steps in the world. 

‘How did it go?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘No-one’s wounded?’

‘I’m injured, but it doesn’t matter,’ answered Robards dismissively. ‘Travers is knocked out and tied. He’s going to Azkaban alright.’

‘We couldn’t take the other two alive’, Kingsley said. ‘One fell from the roof and — Are you alright? Oh, of course …’

He cast a spell and the ropes disappeared.

Scrimgeour closed his eyes for a moment trying to imagine what if he were that Death Eater who fell from the roof. 

‘Can you handle Travers without me?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been of no use today, I’m afraid. I … I’d better go home.’

The minute he returned home, he sat down at the desk and started writing his letter to Albus Dumbledore. He was writing this letter, living out everything that had happened to him. He was writing about life and death, about bravery and fear, about strength and weakness — and about his long long wait. After all, hanging from that stairwell had been far more frightening than writing this letter. 

Having finished it, he left the parchment for the ink to dry and, utterly exhausted, went to bed. He had a nightmare where he was falling down from a very high tower. In the morning, he read his letter in the light of the new day and was horrified by it, so he just crumpled the parchment and threw it into the bin. 

He had promised to write this letter, not to send it, hadn’t he?


	7. Chapter 7

Albus Dumbledore grew old. His beard and hair turned silvery white; his face was wrinkled. But his eyes remained as bright as ever, so looking into Dumbledore’s eyes no-one would guess his age.

‘I’m very happy for you, Cornelius,’ Dumbledore shook his hand. The height difference made the scene look almost comical — Dumbledore was much taller than Fudge. ‘I sincerely hope that you will become a decent leader for the Wizarding community.’

Scrimgeour kept his distance thinking how strange wizards’ desires and ambitions could be, and that Dumbledore looked so much more like a Minister for Magic than Fudge did in his Muggle dinner jacket and ridiculous green bowler hat. Scrimgeour had already congratulated Fudge.

Little by little guests were starting to wander around the hall. Scrimgeour couldn’t help but overhear Dumbledore telling someone a silly joke. He went to a table and took a glass of Firewhisky.

‘We haven’t met for ages, Rufus,’ he heard behind his back. 

Scrimgeour made himself turn slowly as befitted a wizard of his age with a hurt leg.

‘Good evening, Professor.’

‘I often think how you are doing,’ Dumbledore said and smiled. ‘You are one of my most extraordinary students.’

‘Everything’s fine.’

_Why hasn't Dumbledore ever written to him?_

‘How is your life now, in peacetime?’ asked Dumbledore. ‘War is your element, for Fudge, though, it is quite the opposite.’

‘I’m bored,’ admitted Scrimgeour. ‘I feel like I don’t have anything useful to do. But this way is by all means better than that protracted war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I’m happy that he was defeated.’

Dumbledore sighed. 

‘One can’t be certain here … I’m afraid Voldemort can return one day.’

Scrimgeour shrugged. He doubted that. On the other hand, he was defeated by a baby! It was just logical that the baby might have done something not quite correctly. Grindelwald, for instance, hadn’t ever tried to return for forty five years —

‘Tell me, sir, why hadn’t you fought with You-Know-Who then?’ Scrimgeour asked, because he couldn’t resist the temptation to ask this question. ‘He was afraid of you more than of anyone else in the world —’

‘I was doing everything I could, Rufus, but it was not my war, I understood it then.’

He spread his hands, suddenly reminding Scrimgeour about the day when everyone was celebrating the victory but the victor. 

‘In the future, too, I’m going to do everything I can. But if he returns, I will not be the one to defeat him.’

What does it mean actually, ‘it was not my war’? Shouldn’t you fight evil while you have strength for that? Scrimgeour looked this way and that way. Fudge was accepting another round of congratulations, now from a blond woman in magenta robes who arrived late. Ministry officials were discussing something in the corners. Illusory clouds were brewing outside illusory windows — the Magical Maintenance Department’s work. 

‘You couldn’t defeat him, because you believed some actions to be unacceptable,’ Scrimgeour pointed out. ‘But You-Know-Who flouted the rules, and that made him more powerful.’

‘But what would have been the point in such a victory?’ objected Dumbledore. ‘The Wizarding World would have only got another Dark Lord. Hasn’t life taught you anything, Rufus?’

Scrimgeour felt that he was getting angry. 

‘Your limitations have long become outdated. I don’t know, maybe Grindelwald was more noble and those methods were efficient then, but —’

‘I would rather change the subject,’ said Dumbledore emphasising every word. 

‘A win’s a win,’ shouted Scrimgeour impetuously. ‘And no-one would judge the victor.’

Guests started to turn their heads to see what was going on. Scrimgeour instantly regretted that he’d flipped out. 

‘The victor,’ said Dumbledore quietly, ‘would judge himself.’


	8. Chapter 8

Limping slightly, Scrimgeour entered the canteen and ordered a rare steak and some salad. He looked around for a place to sit. There were some vacant seats at the corner table, and Gawain Robards was waving his hand from there. Scrimgeour nodded and headed there practically bumping into a group of young clerks who were making themselves cosy at a double table. 

‘How was your shift, Gawain?’ asked the Head of Auror Office abruptly.

The dream he had told to Dumbledore in his youth, came true after Moody’s retirement.

Robards moved his cup and ruffled his hair. 

‘As usual, boss, nothing extraordinary. We’ve arrested one guy, but he isn’t even under our jurisdiction. He’s more like Arthur Weasley’s case.’ 

Out of the corner of his eye Scrimgeour saw that one of the guys sitting at the next table — red hair, horn-rimmed glasses — gave a start and stopped unwrapping his lunch package. Lowering his voice, Scrimgeour asked Gawain, ‘Have you dealt with him yourselves or referred the case to Weasley?’

‘Ourselves, of course,’ shrugged the Auror. ‘After Black’s escape, nothing interesting happened. And gosh, we do need something to keep us busy. About the escape,’ he glanced meaningfully at the crowded canteen, ‘we’ll talk about it later, boss. I have a couple of ideas.’

Scrimgeour turned round to make sure the guy stopped eavesdropping, but his fears had been groundless: he had just started eating his sandwiches. The young wizard had a faintly familiar look about him, and that made Scrimgeour feel uneasy. 

‘That guy with sandwiches, he reminds me of someone,’ muttered Scrimgeour, not hoping to hear an answer. But Robards nodded knowingly.

‘He’s Arthur Weasley’s boy. Started working here just recently, as far as I know, a few months, maybe.’

_Weasley? That’s the reason, of course, the only reason. Red hair, blue eyes, glasses —_

A sudden scream that rang out in the canteen made Scrimgeour instantly grab his wand. But there was no danger, it was just that the Weasley boy grew an impressive bushy beard and a fantastic head of hair in a flash. Under the scrutinising eyes of his neighbours he jumped from his seat, dropping his sandwich, and coughed. Then, in horror and dismay, he started running his hands over the hair and beard that looked just like … Albus Dumbledore’s. In his youth, of course.

‘I’ll tear their heads off!’ growled Weasley’s son when his changed appearance had sunk in. ‘They have to stop all these jokes or they’ll come to grief eventually! What did these stupid lazybones add to my … STOP LAUGHING!’

‘You should buy your food here, so your brothers won’t be able to tamper with it,’ suggested one of the clerks wiping away his tears of laughter. 

‘You look good with all that, though,’ added another one. ‘And you must admit that this is better than the Howler you got last week in the middle of a meeting. Ann, Ann, come here! Do you have a mirror?’

Scrimgeour caught Gawain’s glance and realised that he was still holding the wand ready and he put it in his pocket. The steak he ordered was already on the table, but Scrimgeour, not wanting to start eating, was taking his time. His knee was painful again, because of the weather, for sure. It was lousy outside, so much for the summer. 

Meanwhile, Weasley turned red and, to Scrimgeour’s relief, lost any resemblance to Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster of Hogwarts could be anything but a person without a sense of humour he was not. Surely, he would never have reacted to his relatives’ jokes like that. Well, almost surely. One could never tell with him. 

‘It’s all a joke for you!’ cried Weasley in despair and threw away the mirror, readily given to him. ‘And I have an important report to present in ten minutes! Mr Crouch cannot see me like this!’

The poor victim of his own mischievous brothers stormed out of the canteen. The young wizards exchanged looks and laughed. 

‘That’s a clear example that justifies Moody’s paranoia,’ noticed Robards in a didactic tone.

Scrimgeour squeezed out a smile.

‘Let’s wish Moody luck. He’s taking his post as a Hogwarts Professor soon. It’ll be his duty to stuff knowledge into young minds, and those Weasley pranksters may well be among his students.’

‘You going to eat it, boss?’ reminded the Auror. ‘The food’s getting cold. You’ll need to use a spell to warm it up, and it won’t be so tasty after that.’

‘Yeah, of course,’ said Scrimgeour, taking his knife and fork. 

_What a particularly silly scene, he thought. I have to get it out of my head, the sooner the better._


	9. Chapter 9

‘Congratulations!’

‘Congratulations, sir!’

‘Congratulations, Minister!’

‘Congratulations!’

Scrimgeour entered his new office. He was greeting Ministry officials with curt nods without stopping to talk. 

Soon after his inauguration, he had a conversation with Albus Dumbledore. He had been right from the very beginning. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named revived himself a year ago. And it was hard to decide which news was worse.

_But of course he’ll handle this situation. And it should be under control, though it’s absurd to suppose that Fudge could have handled this. But he can. Dumbledore will see that the Ministry, too, is worth something! He just needs a way to talk to Harry Potter —_

A Weasley in a strict black robe was waiting for him in the waiting room. That very Weasley whose resemblance to Albus Dumbledore struck him two years ago. 

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Scrimgeour. 

Weasley jumped up as if there was a hidden spring in his chair. His blue eyes sparkled. 

‘Good evening, Minister! I was Mr Fudge’s Junior Assistant.’

‘I see.’

His predecessor’s legacy, of course. That it should be he! Who could’ve thought!

Heading for his office, Scrimgeour passed Weasley. There he glanced at reams of paper on the large oaken table, at a bowler hat that had definitely been forgotten by Fudge (he should return it later), and went back to the waiting room. 

‘What’s your name?’ he asked. Scrimgeour preferred to use first names to talk to his subordinates, especially if they were —

_How old is he? Twenty?_

‘I’m sorry,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’m Percy Weasley.’

‘Percival?’ Scrimgeour wished he had bit his tongue and hadn’t said that. Too many coincidences! They even shared the name. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore —

‘No, sir. It’s just Percy.’

_That’s better, though —_

‘Do you have a middle name?’ asked Scrimgeour sharply. 

‘Ignatius,’ answered Percy slightly surprised. 

‘I’m going to use this name.’

‘As you wish, sir, but —’

Scrimgeour interrupted his assistant: ‘You’ll get on with your duties tomorrow. No, wait, you can start today. Ignatius, find Fudge, he should have his bowler hat back. Tell him to arrange a meeting with Mr Major. I need to see him.’ 

‘Yes, Mr Scrimgeour,’ blurted out Percy. 

When he left, Scrimgeour tried to think about the point he had to discuss with the Muggle Prime Minister, but he couldn’t stop thinking about that scene in the canteen two years ago. 

_And now? Does Percy have enough money to buy food in the canteen instead of bringing it from home? Arthur Weasley has worked at his post Merlin knows for how long, and he’s such an experienced and responsible Ministry official —_

Scrimgeour searched those heaps of paperwork to deal with later, found a clean piece of parchment and wrote in his sprawling handwriting the official notification of promotion for Arthur Weasley.


	10. Chapter 10

The war went on. Scrimgeour felt anger more often than not, because he couldn’t make this cumbersome administrative machinery called the Ministry work properly. Not even being in charge of it. The Ministry’s reputation itself had long been damaged with Fudge’s politics, and it was next to impossible to get rid of the overwhelming bureaucracy. And the person in the way of the transformation was Dolores Umbridge. 

Harry Potter’s help in this situation would be invaluable, but Dumbledore refused point-blank to arrange their meeting. Scrimgeour tried to find Potter himself, but there was an unpleasant surprise waiting for him: however hard he tried he hadn’t found any ‘number four’ in Privet Drive in that boring Muggle town where Potter lived. It was evidently some side effect of Potter’s magic protection. But what threat could a Minister for Magic pose to the boy?

September 1st came, and Potter went to Hogwarts along with other students. So an opportunity to meet him without Dumbledore knowing about it was lost. Scrimgeour was so irritated by it that he complained to Percy that everyone was just spiking his wheels and no-one was thinking about the Ministry and its role in the Wizarding community. And it seemed that only he, Rufus Scrimgeour, understood how helpful an agreement between the Ministry and Potter would be. 

‘So, you want to talk to Harry Potter, Mr Scrimgeour?’ asked Percy with a sparkle in his eyes. He was happy to enhance the prestige of the Ministry, of course. 

‘Yes, Ignatius, that is correct,’ answered Scrimgeour in a much calmer voice. 

Percy drew himself up and adjusted his glasses.

‘My younger brother’s been in close acquaintance with Potter since the first grade,’ he said proudly, ‘Potter often visits my ho— the house where my family lives. He’ll visit them sooner or later, that’s for sure.’

Scrimgeour looked approvingly at Percy whose immediate embarrassment was obvious. 

‘That’s great. I hope you’ll provide me with the information in time.’

Percy nodded hastily.

Amid all his tedious administrative duties, all the plans to defeat Voldemort, all his vain attempts to meet Harry Potter, Scrimgeour hadn’t been paying attention to something that was going on right under his nose. But soon enough he noticed the way Percy Weasley glanced at him from time to time, he noticed that more often than not Percy decided to work long hours, as if he had nowhere to go afterwards. He noticed how lost and upset Percy looked every time when Scrimgeour was for some reason dissatisfied with his work. At that time Scrimgeour thought that he started to understand Albus Dumbledore a bit better.

He scrutinised Percy’s personal file. He was a Gryffindor too, of course. He was born in August just like Scrimgeour, so recently he had turned twenty. He’d been working for the Ministry since graduation. 

One balmy Autumn evening, after finishing his work, Percy addressed Scrimgeour, stammering and having lost all his usual formality.

‘Sir … I have to talk with you.’

Scrimgeour felt strange excitement. He leaned on his walking stick and said: ‘I’m listening, Ignatius.’ 

Percy blushed. 

_Red haired people easily turn red. He might have looked the same many years ago. Everything in life keeps repeating itself as if he’s running up a spiral staircase. And there is only one way to break this circle. He has to fall just like he’s falling from the tower in his nightmares that he’s been having since that day —_

He knew what Percy was going to say, he knew what he was going to answer. It was just another turn of that staircase.

But Percy surprised him.

‘I love you, Mr Scrimgeour,’ he said clasping the case handle so hard that his knuckles turned white. 

Scrimgeour had never thought how different bravery can be. He looked at Percy with new eyes. Could this young man be the one to break the circle, to redirect that staircase to another place? 

_He might be, but only with Rufus’s help._

‘I have achieved everything I wanted, and even more,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m the Minister. But in truth I have nothing and I can give nothing. I can’t give you happiness. I have to learn how to live my life from scratch. You have to keep that in mind.’

Percy toyed with this thought for a moment, and then said his glasses sparkling: ‘This information can hardly affect my feelings, sir.’

Scrimgeour almost said that these words were the final proof that it was his assistant, not an impostor under Polyjuice Potion, but he changed his mind. A joke was hardly appropriate here, even if there, in front of him, had been a person with a better sense of humour than Percy’s. 

‘Fine,’ he said instead.

That night for the first time there were two pairs of glasses on Scrimgeour’s bedside cabinet.


	11. Chapter 11

He’d been waiting for a meeting with Harry Potter for so long, and this meeting ended in disaster.

It was unbearable to think about it. He (with Percy’s help) had gone to great pains to find out that Potter was going to spend Christmas with the Weasleys. Scrimgeour also learned the names of all Percy’s family and promised himself not to call him Ignatius there. Besides, Percy wasn’t at all happy to meet his family, but he couldn’t say ‘no’ to Scrimgeour. 

And how did that turn out? This boy attacked the Ministry’s work! As he said, he was _Dumbledore's man through and through!_

_When will they learn that we just have to do anything for the victory? And it really doesn’t matter if some Shunpike is locked in a cell!_

Scrimgeour left without saying goodbye. He Apparated home and poured himself Firewhiskey. Less than an hour later Percy, who was as furious as Scrimgeour himself, knocked at his door. His glasses were strangely lopsided. 

That evening they both got drunk. Percy said thickly that he was fed up with people without any life ambitions or proper careers. He claimed that he was going to become the Minister in twenty or thirty years and that there was a good saying in that respect. It was something about a Hippogriff —

‘If you’re aiming at the moon, you’ll hit a Hippogriff, but if you’re aiming at a Hippogriff, you’ll hit the ground?’ said Scrimgeour sobering up. 

Percy nodded.

‘Yeah … something like that.’

He leaned over to Scrimgeour, and he hugged him. 

‘That’s the way it is, Ignatius,’ whispered Scrimgeour barely audibly to the red crown of the head trying not to think about Albus Dumbledore. 

It was their first and last Christmas.

[](https://hostingkartinok.com/show-image.php?id=32ae3ae1bbc96b44082db47849a3ae1f)


	12. Chapter 12

When Scrimgeour heard that Albus Dumbledore had been killed, he could hardly believe that. All men are mortal, of course, both wizards and Muggles, and the war was raging. But Dumbledore had always seemed to him an unshakable part of this world, but since now he would be no more. Ever.

Rufus had never thought that it could happen. 

And an attack on Hogwarts … was a serious problem. He had to deal with it, but later, not today. Tomorrow. He felt a peculiar emptiness in his soul. Dumbledore was dead. He had fallen from the tower, just like in the nightmares. Though in Scrimgeour’s nightmares it was he, Rufus, who was falling from the tower.

All morning Scrimgeour had been busy with meetings, and only by lunchtime he had noticed that Percy was unusually pale, besides he made a mistake in a report — the first time in Scrimgeour’s memory. 

‘What’s the matter, Ignatius?’ he asked with concern. ‘Are you ill? It’s stuffy today.’

Percy shook his head.

‘There was an attack on Hogwarts, you know. Ginny is there, and Ron —’

‘They said only Dumbledore was killed,’ answered Scrimgeour, clasping the handle of his walking stick. ‘And some of the attackers.’ 

Percy looked as if it hadn’t calmed him at all. 

‘I’ll find some information about them, I promise. It will be quick through my channels. Besides, we’re going there in two days anyway. We have to attend the funeral.’

‘Thanks,’ said Percy in a hollow voice. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll have to rewrite the report. I haven’t noticed that it is written on the back of another one for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I’m going to do it right now —’

Scrimgeour had a hard time resisting the temptation to put his hand on Percy’s shoulder.

At the funeral there was another wave of realisation that Dumbledore had gone. First, in the Great Hall, which he hadn’t seen for such a long time, Scrimgeour saw the vacant seat at the centre of the table. Then outside, Scrimgeour was sitting in the first row, and Minerva McGonagall, sitting next to him, was wiping her tears, whereas a wizard in black robes, standing by a marble table, was making a speech. Harry Potter was somewhere here, too. 

When the flames consumed the remains of the Headmaster, all who wished to say goodbye did so, and the ceremony came to an end, Scrimgeour glanced at the white tomb for the last time and went looking for Harry Potter. 

He found the boy by the lake and started the conversation without any hope for it to succeed, because Harry was looking at him with a clear ‘you-do-not-know-a-thing’ expression. 

Oh no, Potter, it is you who doesn’t understand. No matter how upset you are, no matter how much you’ve lost, you have to proceed with your work, especially if you’re the Minister for Magic. Potter didn’t say that explicitly, but Scrimgeour saw that Potter believed that only his friends and he were able to feel the grief and loss. Others just didn’t understand a thing. 

This conversation ended up in an argument, too, however hard he tried to avoid it. Scrimgeour learned nothing about the circumstances of Dumbledore’s death or what was it that he had been doing in the last months of his life, so Scrimgeour lost all hope for co-operation with Potter. 

On his way back to the Ministry officials that were waiting for him in the distance, Scrimgeour made eye contact with Percy and it occurred to him that however much he had lost, he hadn’t lost everything. This thought eased the tension that had been inside of him, like a tight spring, all these days. Perhaps he should tell Percy about it. He would be glad to hear that.

But not today, some other time.


	13. Chapter 13

Scrimgeour had been racking his brains nearly for a month trying to decipher Albus Dumbledore’s will. He was absorbed by it so deeply that he shirked off nearly all work upon his deputies, stopped reading newspapers and was seeing Percy less often, but still he couldn’t find the answer. The Ministry, feeling Scrimgeour’s grip loosening, started to drift back to its former chaotic state. The only hope was for Thicknesse who was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, or Umbridge and other officials. 

There were a lot of students in Hogwarts, but Albus Dumbledore mentioned in his will only Harry Potter, Percy’s brother Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, and he left them an assortment of rather strange objects. A Snitch, a Deluminator, and a book of fairy tales. 

He didn’t count the Sword of Gryffindor, of course. It was Godric’s heirloom, and it belonged to Hogwarts, so Harry Potter wasn’t going to get it. Scrimgeour was hurt deeply not by the mere fact that he wasn’t mentioned in Dumbledore’s will, but by the implication that only Potter was a true Gryffindor. Luckily, Thicknesse assured him that in this case it would be perfectly legal not to fulfil the last will of the deceased. 

Scrimgeour was rereading the fairy tales he knew from his childhood until his eyes started to ache. He was fiddling the Snitch and switching the Deluminator, but all in vain. He hadn’t understood Dumbledore when he was alive and he was unable to understand him now.

Once, when the day when he was to give these objects to their new owners was nearing, Scrimgeour realised that he was tired of pounding on the locked door. He took a new issue of _The Daily Prophet_ and froze. Right on the front page there was a black and white photo of Albus Dumbledore and an announcement that Dumbledore’s biography written by Rita Skeeter would be released soon. 

He ripped open the paper and found the page he needed. When he started reading, the lines of the article were dancing before his eyes. ‘There will be shocks in store for those who …’, ‘he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth’, ‘a positive nest of nastiness’.

Scrimgeour swallowed nervously. 

‘I’m afraid those who go dewy-eyed over Dumbledore’s spectacular victory must brace themselves for a bombshell — or perhaps a Dungbomb. Very dirty business indeed.’

‘Dumbledore took an unnatural interest in Potter from the word go.’

Scrimgeour ground his teeth, then he crumpled the newspaper and threw it away. First he was going to deal with the will, second he was going to talk to Rita Skeeter. Unthinkingly, he clasped the wand. This book would be released only over his dead body.

… The day had come, and he had to pass Dumbledore’s belongings on to their new owners. 

By coincidence it was July 31st, 1997, Harry Potter’s birthday. He and Hermione Granger were visiting the Weasley family. But this time Percy refused to go with Scrimgeour, and he didn’t insist. He understood that knots and loops tightened by life were not that easily untightened. That’s why he asked Arthur Weasley to help.

Harry Potter and his friends drove him mad for the third time. It was amazing how easily he was losing his self-control when around the boy. Scrimgeour was asking questions, trying not to remember that nasty article from _The Daily Prophet_, but the thought ‘is it true? true?!’ was pounding in his head.

Scrimgeour couldn’t wait for the moment to leave The Burrow, because of all the holiday fuzz that filled the house — beaming with pride, Arthur told Scrimgeour that his eldest son was getting married tomorrow. Having left The Burrow at last, Scrimgeour thought about his happiest memory and waved his wand. It took time for the lion to appear, but when Scrimgeour met his silvery eyes, he felt calmness and serenity for the first time in days.

_No, it isn’t true. _

It wasn’t only about the objective facts. Dumbledore had always been his hero, his role-model, though they had had their share of differences. And that day in May, 1945 was for real. That day was the truth. That was for sure. 

All his life he had been going up the stairs in a wild goose chase. He was asking for the moon. He was pursuing the elusive meaning of his life, but everything he needed had already been right there, next to him. If only he had known it —

But it wasn’t too late. It was never too late. 

Albus Dumbledore and his riddles didn’t bother him anymore. He had two very important things to do. To defeat Voldemort and —

‘Find Ignatius,’ he asked his Patronus. ‘Tell him that I haven’t seen him for a long time and that I miss him.’

The lion, barely visible in bright daylight, crossed the field in graceful leaps and disappeared from sight. 

Scrimgeour Disapparated home to wait for Percy.

In this vicious circle of human fate he himself was a hero and a role-model for Percy. But now Scrimgeour didn’t think of it as if it was just another weird twist of fate, now he wanted to talk to Percy, to ask him about his dreams and desires, beside the idea of becoming a Minister for Magic in twenty years, to ask him what kept him going without the support of his family. 

_And maybe — maybe — he’ll take courage that he’s lacked all his life and at last he’ll be bold enough to admit it to himself and to tell Percy how helpful he’s been lately, so helpful that Rufus can’t even imagine now being alone, and —_

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. It was Percy, of course. Scrimgeour adjusted his glasses and went to open the door with a pensive smile, so unusual for him. 

_Everything will be fine, and this vicious circle will be broken. They have so much time ahead of them —_


	14. Chapter 14

2.08.1933 — 1.08.1997


End file.
